Week One Day 4: Midnight cowboy

For the past two nights Gavin has gotten up at midnight to nurse. Usually this wouldn't be a problem for me because nursing is not my department. That's all Stacy. In fact, we call her Booby Cafe, Gavin's preferred dining establishment. All I offer is Pump Lunch (and, today anyway, rice cereal mixed with formula that caused Gavin to make the face I might imagine him making had I fed him directly from Jasper's litter box. After about two spoonfuls we were done with that. It has since hardened to a foul smelling cement in its little bowl on the counter. I'm surprised the cat hasn't eaten it or at least knocked it on the floor for the dog. They tag-team like that). If Booby Cafe is his own personal restaurant, I'm pretty sure he sees Pump Lunch as some kind of roadside stand. Gavin is quite good at taking a bottle, thank God (this was not the case a couple of months ago), but he is definitely a boob man. In fact, Stacy has even surmised that he dreams about her nipples. And standing up, which he loves to do (assisted, of course). But mostly her nipples.

Anyway, for whatever reason, the past two nights Gavin has decided that after his midnight feeding it was "up-up time," as we call his conscious hours. We took turns rocking him to sleep, gently placing him in his crib, only to have him start crying as soon as we made it back to our own bed. This lasted about an eternity (a.k.a. an hour) each night. Perhaps Gavin knows that we are planning on Ferberizing him soon since the rocking to sleep thing has gotten progressively harder now that he's 19+ lbs. Maybe he's testing our wills.

Gavin and I watched some trucks out the front window today. A yellow tree chipper and a small white pick-up truck belonging to the city. A few guys out there in dark blue jumpsuits feeding huge branches into the machine. I tried to explain it to Gavin, how the chipper cut made the tree branches into tiny pieces and that you had to be very careful when you used that machine because the chipper doesn't know what is going into it and will make anything into tiny pieces. "Someday you'll watch Fargo," I told him, "and then you'll understand."

Gavin's Aunt Amanda came over today to watch him for a couple hours while I went to an appointment. I got lost on the way there (I'd never been to their new location before) and was very stressed out. Then on the way home I got even more lost and it took me forever to get home. The weather is really crummy outside. We're under a Winter Weather Advisory here in SE Michigan. I'm hoping that Stacy's school has a snow day tomorrow so she can stay home with us. Maybe we'll take Gavin outside in the snow. And take pictures, of course.

On pictures: there are hundreds of photos of Gavin (over 400 on Facebook alone) in existence. By the time he's a year there likely will be well over 1,000. He's very photogenic. "Photo session" is part of every day's routine activity. I love dressing him up in his little outfits (I buy him clothes almost compulsively) and taking pictures. He has a grandma and other relatives in Florida, an aunt in Boston, an uncle in Arizona. My best friend is in California and Stacy has friends in D.C. So it's a duty and an obsession to take pictures of Gavin so that his peeps can track his growth from afar. Plus, did I mention that he is very photogenic? He is so very handsome. I love his face. Probably too much in that I love it to be clean as well. And if this means picking his nose or constantly dabbing at drool on his lips and chin, I consider it my job. He doesn't like it at all. He'd be fine with hunks of dried snot hanging on his face, but I care about him too much to let him go around like that. Granted, I can already see how this is only going to become more difficult as he gets older. Eventually I won't be able to get him to sit still for countless photos and there will even come a day when I no longer pick out his clothes or take care of his hygiene needs. About age 18 sounds right.

Added mama bonus: persistent heartburn every night. Awesome.

Week One Day 3: We take a walk

After putting out a request for toy suggestions on FaceBook, the majority response I got was "get out of your sweatpants and leave the house." Actually, this is the advice that I've been getting for weeks leading up to my stay-at-homedom. And today we actually did it. Well, part of it. I didn't change out of my sweatpants, which, in fact, were/are my pajamas, which I am still wearing now at nearly 8 p.m. But I did strap Gavin into the Baby Bjorn and snap a leash on Henri and go around the block.

Keep in mind, this is Michigan and it's cold here. So going anywhere, even just going outside, is a production. Everybody has to be all swaddled up and then after you get moving it gets too hot and nobody's happy. But I think I adequately dressed us -- well, I adequately dressed Gavin, anyway, I didn't even bother to put on a bra, but hey, it's my life. I bundled Gavin in his fleece University of Michigan winter thing (it's once piece, it has feet and little fold over sleeves and a hood. I'm sure The Children's Place has an official name for such a garment, but I think "winter thing" is sufficient) and put a little baby cap on his head under the hood. I put my jacket on but couldn't zip it since Gavin was on the front of me, but he kept me warm.

So we walked. Henri peed on things. I talked to Gavin pointing things out like, "Look, that is a house we don't live in. If we go in it the people will call the police," and explaining things like, "Dogs like to pee on fire hydrants. Dogs pee outside and babies pee in diapers. And that's okay but not forever," and, "We have to be careful because ice is slippery and it would really suck if we fell down." I am an optimist, obviously.

Another suggestion I got was to get him books. Well, he has LOTS of books. His mom and I are avid readers so our friends and family got him a lot of books. And I buy books for him compulsively. I have an Amazon.com Wish List of hundreds more. He likes to be read to, but mostly at night during wind-down time. During his day time awake periods he likes to be very active. Books right now seem frustrating to him because he lacks the dexterity to turn the pages (even in the big chunky kids books) and just sucks on the corners. Eventually I'm going to have to have the "books are not for eating" discussion with him. I'll let my wife have the big sex talk with him later on.

Gavin is pretty good at playing on his own. He loves his exersaucer, for example, which does not have room for both of us, and he can get pretty absorbed in some toys by himself for short periods. He tends to like things that are very busy and colorful and have lots of different parts and pieces and sounds. I bought him a bunch of organic tree-hugger toys and he expresses zero interest. None. ANYthing else, even trash (Kleenexes, etc. within his reach) interests him more. Alas.

I also do play with him a lot as opposed to toys. I'll lay on my back and hoist him in the air above me, or let him stand balanced between my knees and then knock him down (gently, of course, and I should add we're on the bed and by "knocking him down" I mean letting him fall back about two feet into the bunched up comforter. It's not like I'm cold clocking him or anything. That's his territory, anyway. He's really into pulling my hair, sticking his fingers in my mouth, nose or eyes, and slamming his 100 lb. skull against my face while I'm holding him). I have him stand on me and yell out, "Giant baby!" I kiss his cheeks and neck until he has a laughing fit. But I can't sustain this for non-stop one and a half to two hour play periods in between naps.

As for TV: no TV. Not even the Backyardigans, which has been so highly recommended to us.

Advice from my mom: "Take him for walks, and point out all different aspects of his world as you do. I did that with you and [your twin sister] Laura. That is how I taught you your colors and what sounds different animals make etc. You did, however, think that everything was a dog for a while and say "woof" when you saw some sparrows one day."

My father recalls that during our "everything's a dog" period my parents took us to the zoo and every animal we saw we'd say, "Woof woof." As he recalled it, "It was like going to the zoo with a couple of retards."